#how to sell your house without a realtor

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how to sell your house without a realtor

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[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[henneseyhoe]

Unexpected Expected Guest

Killmonger X BLACK!FEM!reader.

WARNINGS :SMUT, slight spiritualism, vampire/ghost!killmonger,profanities(obvi), use of the Nword, all that spooky Halloween shit too lmao.

Summary :reader is curious about the history of the house she just moved into, so she digs deep into it with the help of google and her “witch” friend.

-

3:00 AM, 𝐒𝐮𝐧, 𝐨𝐜𝐭 31𝐬𝐭.

My clock read, making me sigh in annoyance. I sucked my teeth "this shit do not work, takin' my ass to bed" I mumbled to myself, blowing out the candles I had lit about an hour ago, all seven of them sitting in a circle around a destroyed picture.

The picture contained a man, his face scribbled out completely with all of the corners of the Polaroid ripped. I found the picture laying around just outside of my door, sitting there on my porch.

since then I never stopped obsessing over it. I've had reoccurring dreams, waking up in a pool of sweat because of how every dream ended. With me getting bit by some creature, the unknown being sucking the life out of me with its sharp fangs. Worse part is that I enjoyed the image, not only the image, but the feeling.

You could clearly tell the picture was old, along with proof on the back of it, a date being written out.

'1965' it read, my curiosity becoming overwhelming.

-

𝐒𝐚𝐭, 𝐨𝐜𝐭 25𝐭𝐡.

"That's weird right? Like who just leaves a picture on a strangers doorstep" I spoke to my friend 'Eboni' while wiping down my kitchens counters

"okay, hear me out Y/N, I know you don't do that witchy shit, but that ain't no mistake. somebodies trynna get your attention" I heard my friend from the other side, her conclusion making me roll my eyes and shake my head.

"Eboni, if you think I'm finna 'call upon' a random ass nigga you out of yo damn mind! He can kiss my ass and stay where the fuck he at!" I argued, my dishwashers door falling open with a loud 'bang', the sound of my plates clicking together accompanying the startling sound, all of it happening simultaneously to me ending my sentence.

I jumped back slightly and glared over at the appliance before walking over and closing it, continuing to listen to my friend.

"Y/N! This is serious! You know you just moved in and literally told me to my face that something was off, and you know after you got that picture it wasn't the first time you had a dream like that in that damn house. What if summoning it is the only way it'll leave? That shit is very possible, you know?"

I thought about it for a moment before groaning, stomping my feet as I walked into my living room

"...fine! Damn!".

I knew the trouble I was getting into, somewhat, but that didn't stop me. Just like how I knew there was something about this house before I moved in, which made me think back to the day I signed the papers for the five bedroom house. Thinking, the stories still didn't stop me.

-

𝐓𝐮𝐞, 𝐀𝐮𝐠 12𝐭𝐡.

"So for legal reasons, before you sign this lease, I am supposed to tell you that somebody did pass in this house, which is why it's so cheap, but before you rip the paper up, this house has been blessed and saged from in and out! There was never any problems before, but we wanted to double check!" My realtor explained in her thick southern accent, smiling as I stared at her like she was crazy before looking back at the house.

"Um...what exactly happened to this person?" I asked, my eyebrows raising. The woman shrugged, still smiling widely "no idea! But I assure you the house is clean, it's been about 59 years since anything happened, make it 60 when halloween hits actually. A happy family has lived here for 2 years and now they wanna sell, so is it still a deal?" She asked and I sighed, thinking while looking down at the legal papers, a pen in hand.

"..yeah, deal" I spoke, signing the papers with a quick 'flick' of my wrist.

-

3:33 AM, 𝐒𝐮𝐧, 𝐨𝐜𝐭 31𝐬𝐭.

I woke up in a sweat once again, turning over to look at my clock. '27 minutes of sleep without interruption. That's a record' I thought, a sudden pain striking my abdomen. "shit" I breathed. My clothes were damp against my skin, my thighs clenched tightly to make an attempt at trying to stop my second heart beat.

I looked back up at the ceiling, only to be surprised by the floating being; a man above me, his eyes glowing an electric blue as a sinister grin was plastered on his face, his fangs making the expression more prominent.

My eyebrows furrowed and my mouth widened before anything could come out, my expression beating my scream to the punch. "OH SHIT!" I scream at the top of my lungs, jumping up out of my bed.

I tripped over tangled covers while attempting to run for the door, tears already falling down my face. My hand made contact with the door handle, the limb immediately being jerked back as the metal knob glowed red with heat, burning my hand.

'SHIT!'.

I quickly turned, backing myself back against the door as I sobbed, crouching down and cowering.

the man nonchalantly sat on my dresser, crossing his legs. His clothes had a slick, elegant style to it, his body giving off a slight cologne scent that I could smell from where I was sitting. he was wearing a suit, the black blazer being open to show his plain, halfway opened, white button up, his pants being leather to match his black boots along with a literal chain and lock around his neck as an accessory.

"I like when you look scared, it’s cute" he spoke, an evil chuckle exiting his mouth as he watched me "who- who are you?" I stuttered, my body shaking intensely.

"Who am I? WHO. am. I?! You out here summoning niggas and don't even know they name? I could have been satan himself coming to personally drag you down to hell with me" he went on, jumping down from the wooden drawers and slowly inching his way over to me with a swaggered walk, his hands stuffed in his pocket.

"why, I'm the 'nigga' you've had imaginary beef with for like a month or so, but you can call me Kill, Killmonger, Erik, Daddy, whichever you prefer, doll” he responded and paused, looking down at me. “…Ya know, you talk a lot of shit for a mortal who can't fight" he teased, bending down into my face, shock being written all over my body language as my jaw hung low, my eyes being so wide that they could pop out like gum balls and my cheeks being stained with tears.

"Now what was that about me kissing your ass? I'd like to take up that offer since I'm here. in the flesh" he smiled, his pearly whites gleaming in the moonlight shining from my window.

"I-I-..I'm sorry...I didn't know you were real.." I cried quietly, his eyes rolling. "okay see, I purposely scared you earlier, but now you doing a little much" he leaned up, looking down at me as I wiped my tears, still shaking.

"Stop. shaking." he demanded, backing up as I was lifted out of my crouched position, the shock I already had ignoring the fact that it wasn't me who made my body move like that.

"I said stop." He snapped his fingers in front of my face, my body immediately stopping its movements with my heartbeat slowing down tremendously, my demeanor completely changing and becoming more chill.

I heard every beat of my heart in my ears, every pulse getting louder than the other.

"Much better. So now that I'm here, I wanna talk a little before I get to business. Any questions?" He asked, floating over to the end of my bed and sitting down, crossing his legs once again.

I carefully walk back over to my bed, sitting down as I try to comprehend the moment, yet it was like my brain wouldn’t let me on purpose.

"...what happened to you...and why are you still here?" I ask with almost zero thought behind it. He shrugged before answering. "don't know, honestly. Apparently I was murdered, but all I remember is waking up and BOOM!" He exclaimed loudly, leaning over to me while adding a dramatic pause "..I'm in hell" he stared, his eyes glowing once again before bursting into laughter, watching my terrified reaction "I'm joking. Dead people have amazing sense of humor dont we?" I blinked, still being confused.

He stopped laughing and his face straightened "...I didn't go to hell, obviously, and my ex girlfriend killed me. You can guess how" he explained and gestured to the chain around his neck. I nodded, finally understanding "okay...why?" I asked, the entity letting out a chuckle "let's just say I was very lucky with ladies"

I hummed, nodding again before tilting my head "...so why do you have a problem with me?"

He tilted his head back at me "Problem? I don't. It's not like I hate you or something, I just like fuckin’ around. ain't shit else to do when you're DEAD... but now that I'm HERE, I can finally be free, thanks to yo nosy ass and your witch ass friend" he smiled, his fangs making their third appearance tonight.

"Cool, it was nice talking to you then" I smiled slightly, a nervous feeling rising in my stomach as he shook his head 'no'

"Nah. I can't just...leave" he blinked "...whatchu mean? Yes you can" I squinted and he shook his head again "nope. I can't. See, you summoned me out of curiosity because your friend didn't give you enough information to execute this correctly, I'm guessing, and if I'm correct you didn't even read about me or either you didn't read enough. You want me to leave? Give me an offering" he explained.

"...fine. What do you want?" I asked with a slight attitude, being annoyed with how I actually had to work for him to leave.

He thought, humming "...bring me a body, a fresh body. I don't want anybody cold or dirty, so try not to bring me anyone with a drug or drinking pro-"

I interrupted him "wait— are you asking for a dead person?" My eyebrows knitted together in worry as I watched a smile fall upon his face, his teeth peeking out from under his lips

"Well..not dead exactly, I can do my own dirty work apart from getting them, I just need you to bring them to me. what'd you think I was asking for, silly?" He tilted his head with sarcasm, my head shaking.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that for you. I can't just go out and lure somebody in my house, that's disgusting!" he pouted and got up from the edge of the bed, turning to me with a sigh "well then there's no other way. too bad I gotta take you with me now" he leaned in, his eyes glowing a fear striking red now.

"Please! I'll do anything but that!" I screamed, backing up away from him, my back hitting the hard, wooden headboard. his movements paused as his eyes turned back to a midnight black, the red swirling around his iris before disappearing completely.

"Anything? And you mean anything, correct?" He asked and I nodded, a smirk carving in on his face as he began to chuckle, a deep voiced echo fallowing behind every laugh "why didn't you say that before, love?"

He grabbed my wrists and pinned me to the bed, my night set being ripped apart from my bottoms to my bra without him moving a finger

My thoughts ran wild as he began kissing me roughly as if he had been starving for any type of physical touch. His skin was soft and warm, comforting in a sense as he grazed his fingertips across my bare stomach. his lips went from mine to my neck, laying tender kisses across my jawline and collarbones before licking his way back up. His tongue swirled around over places he had left a kiss until he had came up to my chin, the tip of his tongue flicking up once he finally got to the end.

Almost as if only seconds passed by, he had already been going down on me, roughly pulling me to the edge of the bed by my ankles and putting them up to the sky. he pinned my thighs to the mattress, cupping the underside of my knees before he began going to work, his warm tongue swirling around my clit at an agonizing slow pace. The tip of his tongue did figure eights on my bundle of nerves, making me gasp and arch my back, my reaction encouraging him to go faster with flicking his tongue.

As time went on, he began slipping fingers inside of me. First one, then two, then it was his tongue, slowly sliding them in and aiming upwards for my gspot. The pressure inside of me built up with every thrust of his fingers, my stomach sucking in. "Oh— fuck!" I moaned, air being caught in my throat as I leaned up a bit, looking down at him just to make eye contact with the man himself. He had been watching the whole time, watching how my body reacted to ever motion.

"cum for me?" He asked before attaching his lips back around my clit and humming, his eyelids lowering while the whites of his eyes gained a bright glow as I finally let go, not even being able to answer his question as I came all over his fingers, a loud gasp escaping my throat.  He leaned up and my legs immediately clamped together, my orgasm still hitting hard for me as his fingers slid back out of my body. He looked down at me and licked his fingers clean, humming at the taste.

I breathed hard, trying to catch my breath "done?" I asked, trying to cover my body with my sheet, the material not budging from the bed "nope." He simply answered, kneeling on the bed and beginning to crawl closer to me.

I backed away hesitantly, my stomach steady churning with tension once I had made contact with the headboard.

"Stay still for me. You'll make a good partner for eternity" he mumbled quietly, smirking to himself.

[cutesyscreenname]

The Last Great American Dynasty: Chapter 1

This Was The Very First Page

Series summary:

Addiction, deadlines, a nasty divorce. In an effort to shed your skin and find yourself again, you pack up and move to a historic seaside home across the country. It's all a blur, you're hurting and spinning your wheels in a big house all alone. Until Frankie shows up on your doorstep.

Pairing: Frankie Catfish Morales x AFAB Reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 1709

Warnings: allusions to former drug use, mention of divorce, not too much to warn of yet we just getting started bby

Notes: I hope we all have a marvelous time and I don't ruin everything 💀 I've been gone for a long ass time, taking baby steps getting back into things.

Also much thanks to @pr0ximamidnight for helping flesh this out (aka letting me rant at her until it came together) and @mydailyhyperfixations, @joelsgreys, and @mylostloversbookmarks for also listening to me ramble 😂 lub u 🩵💙

Chapter One Playlist 🎶📻⚓🌊⛵🎶

This was the very first page

Not where the story line ends

My thoughts will echo your name

Until I see you again

It feels pretentious to drive across the country like this when you don't have to. In fact it was a struggle to do so - insisting and arguing with everyone that you wanted, no - needed to. You could feel the eyes rolling behind your back, hear the sarcastic thoughts unspoken.

Who does she think she is, Kerouac?

Truthfully you just wanted the white noise of wind, pavement, and your Spotify playlist of guilty pleasure pop songs, too occupied by operating a motor vehicle to check the deluge of emails and texts that had been pouring in for months.

A Tale of Two Addicts

Best Selling Author Loses Control of Her Own Narrative

Authoring Her Own Disaster: Detox and Divorce

How could you blame them when the headlines practically wrote themselves?

“So let me get this straight. Not only am I not getting new pages, you’re putting this project on hold to move to the east coast so you can - what? - live out some whimsical seaside fantasy?”

You sat in your office chair, surrounded by stacks of cardboard boxes, pen hovering above the signature line of your divorce papers like a memoir you don’t want to take ownership of as your editor sighs at you over speakerphone.

“I’m doing what they told me to do in therapy, Miles. I’m changing the scenery, starting over. It’s difficult to write any pages for you if I’m too catatonically depressed to get out of bed. Take it as good news, a strategic move. Literally.”

The house has a history. That’s the reason you’d chosen it, frankly. You’d discussed the listings with your realtor over the phone, clicking through the pictures as they recounted the amenities and specs of each property.

“And then there’s the Harkness house…”

If her goal was to intrigue you she’d accomplished it tenfold, having you on the hook for every sordid detail as she regaled you with the story of a widowed heiress making a splash of scandal through the coastal town with her extravagance. She leaned into the impropriety of it all, trying to sell you with gossip, but all you heard was the story of a woman who had reclaimed her life after losing love. Perhaps the house held that energy in its foundation. Maybe if she did it there, so could you.

Pulling up the winding driveway you almost feel a page turn, a fresh start. Then the moving van crunches gravel behind you and your phone pings with a missed call from your lawyer, breaking the spell of your daydream.

It’s been a long day already, an endless stream of delays and snafus. Missing parts and tedious tinkering with finicky engines has left Frankie a mess of sweat, grease, and frustration. The sigh of a long day finally finished whistles out as he climbs the stairs to the office, ready to hand in a few leaves of paperwork and drag himself home when the sound of muffled conversation gives him pause.

“She’s ruining everything, we’ve all but flown in the film crew and we hardly have half a film without that house in it!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ray, she could be perfectly cooperative. We don’t know-”

“It’s for fucking NETFLIX, Tim. I won’t be made to look foolish by some scandalous, self important, Hollywood-”

“And you won’t. Let’s just give her the packet, for all we know we could have signed papers come Monday morning.”

That’s all Frankie hears before the desire to get out of there steers his body back toward the stairs. I can turn these in on Monday, not worth the hassle...

Before his steel toe can touch the second step, though, the door swings open and a booming voice sounds behind him.

“Ah! Mr. Morales! Good timing, son. You pass the Harkness house on your way out of here, don’t you?”

The question is moot, the offices and hangar located along the coast such that there’s practically no choice but to pass the seaside estate if you want to reach the town and its modest sprawl of surrounding neighborhoods.

“I do, sir.”

“Then it’s meant to be. I’m sure you’ve heard that it’s newly occupied and we have a…welcome packet of sorts…for the new owner but the courier’s service is closed. Would you mind dropping this off on your way home?”

Tim, the more even keeled of the two executives that frequent these offices, hands over a manilla envelope without waiting for an answer, traces of engine grease still clinging to Frankie's skin leaving faint fingerprints on the hefty packet. The man cuts in again before Frankie can open his mouth to speak.

“Is the jet ready for takeoff in the morning? We’re expected in New York by eleven.”

Frankie studies the name on the envelope for a long moment before looking up to meet the impatient gaze of the man in front of him.

“Ah, yeah- Yes, sir. She’s ready for takeoff. Pilot’s ready for you anytime after eight, should you decide to leave earlier.”

He only receives a slight nod before both men push past him and he’s left alone outside the office door, eyes drawn back to the neatly printed label with your name on it. Why does it sound so familiar?

Lost in a daze of curiousity, Frankie’ feet carry him down the stairs, through the hangar, and out to his truck. He’s so distracted by the strange feeling in his gut that he starts his drive with his steel toes still on and the work orders still stacked along with the mystery packet in his passenger seat.

It's been a week and you're still staring at, discovering, stumbling over boxes.

How the hell does one person accumulate this much stuff?, you think as you sit on the sofa and nurse the soon-to-be bruise on your shin from the cardboard cube you'd just rammed into rounding the corner into the living room. The house in LA had seemed so desolate when Trevor had moved out and now you sit surrounded by a sea of what now feels like junk.

Even in this vast expanse of square footage and seaside it seems the walls might close in on you at any moment.

Thoughts manifesting into reality, you begin to feel too hot seemingly from nowhere. Pulling at the collar of your worn t-shirt, you go to crack open the nearest window when a blue pickup truck rounds the bend and pulls up to your gate. Before you can take too long to squint and guess at who the hell would be at your gate on a Friday evening, the driver presses the call button and your phone begins to ring.

“Hello?”

The phone crackles lightly and a deep, dulcet voice answers you.

“Yes, ah- I've got a delivery here. Is this the new owner?”

From the window you can see the figure in the truck cab lift an envelope to read it and he confirms your name.

“Yeah, that's me. I'll buzz you in.”

“Thanks.”

You hang up and press the button to let him through, watching as he winds up the drive and stops in front of the house.

Had you forgotten to sign something? He asked about being the homeowner, so it can't be another addendum to Trevor's many demands attached to the divorce. Your confusion and curiosity gives way to a flustered state when you open the door.

The first things you notice are the rich brown orbs looking back at you, brows, lids, and laugh lines working to form a frame of sincere apology, like he knows it's unorthodox for him to be standing on your front step at this hour. The rest of him is just as entrancing - plush lips beneath a gorgeous nose, a broad frame just as soft as it is strong, and a rueful smile that has your cheeks flushing as he adjusts his Standard Oil cap to lend you a peak of soft brown curls.

“Hi there,” he interrupts your stupor and you wonder just how long you've been staring.

“I'm here to deliver this. It's from the Standard Oil offices, ah…courier service is closed and it's pretty important I guess.” He holds the envelope out for you to take, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck in what seems like a nervous habit. You can see the faint grease marks on his fingertips, a matching set of smears on the paper in his hand.

“Oh, um. Thanks. Any idea what it's for?” You take the packet from him, eyeing it curiously. It's simply addressed to you with no further indicators on the outside.

“Something about the property I suppose, not really clear on the details. Lot of history in this house, ya know?”

“So I'm told.” You smile softly, toying with the metal fastener, more intrigued by the messenger than the message at this moment.

After a brief silence he shakes his head, seeming to come back to the present, and you wonder where his mind had drifted to. “Anyway, I'll leave you to it. Sorry for the interruption.”

“Not at all. Thanks again.” You wiggle the packet lightly in your hand.

He cracks another smile and you're certain his eyes roam over you before he mutters a goodnight and turns to go back to his truck. You stay stagnant for a while, watching as he gets into the cab and pulls out of the gate, and a few long moments after that as well.

Finally closing the door, you pad into the kitchen and pour a glass of wine to sip while you open your mystery packet. As you set it on the island countertop a few stray sheets slip out from beneath the envelope. Picking them up, you notice they don't seem to have anything to do with you or the house. In fact they look like order sheets of some kind, a list of mechanical sounding items listed with costs and quantities scribbled next to them.

Next to a black smudge to match your packet and the stranger's fingertips is a carefully printed name on a line marked ‘authorized by’. You read the name aloud and your stomach flutters at the way it somehow feels familiar to say.

“Fransisco Morales…”

More to come soon, let me know in the comments or my inbox if you want to be tagged for the next chapter 😬

[nautilusopus]

nobody else is writing meta analysis for vivarium so i guess i have to do it

Vivarium is a 2019 horror film that the internet doesn’t seem to know what to think of. Most YouTube videos as per usual don’t wanna engage with it on anything more than an extremely literal surface level (hence the abundance of “VIVARIUM EXPLAINED” videos that just recap the plot to you as though you can’t see with your eyeballs that yes, he put on the nametag, that sure is what happened onscreen, yes I fucking get it the boy is like a cuckoo-esque brood parasite I GET IT) that ultimately devolve into speculative fanfiction about how effectively the aliens can take over the world. There are a few people here and there a little more willing to at least engage with what the movie has to say, and from there you get takes about how it’s about how the golden capitalist ideal of the suburban nuclear family is a banal hellscape, which I’d say is generally pretty accurate. Tom spends his entire time at Number 9 labouring, digging a hole while Gemma looks after the boy because he doesn’t know what else to possibly do with himself, an action that wears him down and ultimately costs him his life, and for all his trouble all he’s found is the body of the last guy who tried to labour his way out of this situation. All he’s done is created is a grave for his “offspring” to dump him into. 

Like, as far as Capitalism Bad stories go this one’s pretty on-the-nose, and a lot of the people griping that the story was confusing are mostly the ones that seems to have missed this. (For an even longer tangent about how a lot of scifi stories aren’t going to make sense to you if you resist the very obvious thematic readings they’re giving you because you think things can’t be that deep I recommend Dan Olson’s excellent video on Annihilation.)

Occasionally, though, you get people also mentioning how it’s a little about animal rights, and even more especially about nature versus nurture. For the most part, Tom and Gemma are not kind to the boy. They (understandably) have nothing but contempt towards him. They openly discuss how creepy he is when he’s within earshot. At one point they try to lock him in the car to starve just to see if whoever comes to get his body can be forced to let them go, and they only back out on the plan when the fact that he looks and acts like a child in that moment gets to Gemma and she lets him out. Eventually, the boy grows into an emotionally distant young adult that locks Tom out of the house to die and doesn’t seem to give two shits about their suffering now that he’s bigger and stronger than his “parents”. Surely, we think, if Gemma and Tom had been kinder to him, he would have grown into a kinder adult, even if he was an alien? Are they not perpetuating this literal cycle of violence? 

And with regard to the nature versus nurture reads, I actually directly disagree and find it at odds with the Capitalism Bad message, because my read is this:

No amount of kindness or understanding would have turned the boy into a good person, and acting like it would have is in fact part of the trap. Gemma and Tom would have wound up used up and dead either way, because thematically speaking, what the boy is there to do is to collect data.

More under the cut, I have a lot of opinions about this.

The boy’s creepy alien gimmick is mimicry. It’s what the realtor (p clearly a member of the same species) does when trying to entice Tom and Gemma into Number 9. The realtor is better at saying context-appropriate things than the boy is, but still slips up every now and then, and even so his mannerisms aren’t quite right. At best, he sounds like he’s regurgitating a script (a bit more admissible given he’s trying to sell something). At worst, he parrots Gemma’s “no, not yet” back to her in exactly her voice. Everything he’s saying, it’s clear he’s going through motions without any real understanding of what those motions are, beyond, “This is the thing you say to sell a house.”

The boy is demonstrably worse at it. He’ll parrot entire conversations back to the people who had them regardless if it makes sense to do so. He rarely speaks in his own voice, instead chopping up various words he’s heard from both parents. He doesn’t seem to have much sense for what is and isn’t appropriate to mimic (to the point of Gemma quite transparently tricking him into revealing he’s an alien outright), much less what makes sense for him to mimic. 

He develops this skill gradually over the course of the movie, gets a bit better at putting together sentences people can actually reply to. But even then, he doesn’t seem to engage with the context overall of the conversation. After aforementioned alien reveal, with Tom growing sicker by the day, Gemma begins to cry and back away in horror, and we get this exchange:

The boy: Are you [overwhelmed] again, Mother? Gemma: I am not your mother! The boy: Are you [overwhelmed]? Gemma: I want to go home. The boy: Silly mother. You are home!

There’s no real engagement with the actual conversation at hand. This is the kind of script a reply bot runs. It emulates emotion the same way it emulates everything else. 

His nature is reflected by the surroundings: The identical miles of houses with framed pictures of those houses on their own walls, with no real understanding of what people do and don’t want in the aesthetics of a house. The food that looks correct, but has no flavour or nutritional value, eventually leading to not just Tom’s death, but eventually Gemma’s. The entire world, from the Number 9 house to the suburbs of Yonder in general with its fake clouds, to the boy and its interactions, are fake, hollow, and the kind of thing an alien with no real care for the real human experience beyond perpetuating the system’s own growth would create.

And at this point hopefully some of you have noticed, we’ve seen this exact behaviour pattern before.

i’m quoting the reply on that second one here by @dukeofankh​ because it’s extremely relevant to this entire thing:

I’m honestly reblogging this again because the more I stare at it, the more I feel like this is staggeringly relevant art.

Like, so much of modern capitalist marketing is the construction of these superficially personal narratives. Giving the sense, not only that the brand fits in with your identity, but that it is almost a sentient individual itself that has a personal relationship with you. Corporations have personalities. They want to be your friend, and the reason that the entire internet economy runs on the currency of data right now is that the only way to prop up the illusion that they care about you is by already having the information about you that real people would gain by paying attention

But the only way they can collect and sort all that data is with computers, without any actual humans involved past setting up the parameters and pressing “go.” And computers are fucking idiots.

Which leaves us here: this false, saccharine message of togetherness and community–community between you and your friends but more importantly between all of you and Facebook–stripped fucking bare by the fact that the cookie-cutter algorithm can’t tell the difference between friends supporting and caring about each other and Thanos with a dumptruck ass.

The boy is here to collect data, and he collects it and regurgitates it as though it all has equal relevance to the situation at hand. 

He reacts with the same polite indifference to open contempt, genuine warmth and an attempt to bond with him, terror directed at him, and pleas for mercy from him. Later on when we get a glimpse of the “inner workings” of the house, we see the boy watching another set of parents rawdogging the shit out of each other, and applauding appreciatively with the same blank amusement as he applauds to everything else. He sees Gemma and Tom dancing to the music from their radio outside, trying to have one bright moment with one another despite the grim circumstances they’re in, and he immediately inserts himself into the moment with zero awareness that he isn’t wanted here (granted that’s also extremely a little kid thing to do lol). 

Which leads to the fact that that isn’t to say he doesn’t have his moments of personality. He smiles at positive attention (as well as negative attention), he enjoys interaction. He throws a tantrum when he’s told he can’t watch fucked up alien meat television at 3 am and turns it right back on. About the only time we get a genuine reaction from him is when he gets locked in the car to starve.

But then, so do things like Alexa, or Siri, or Cortana. You can have little conversations with it. It can tell jokes. You can ask it the meaning of life and it’ll tell you 42. You can insult it and it’ll do an EPIC SNAPBACK OMG SO SASSY. The people who designed it want you to view it as a friend, even as it sits there and spies on you and integrates itself more and more into your life. 

Gemma lets him out of the car because (also understandably) she can’t bring herself to kill something that looks like a child. Later on, when she speaks with a dying Tom, she wonders why she didn’t kill him when he was still small. Tom tells her, “Because you’re a good person.” Their problems could have maybe (I mean probably not we’ll never know, at the very least Tom wouldn’t have died of exposure maybe) been solved if they just locked the thing in the car and ignored it, but in the end they still wound up viewing it as a person. 

Tom and Gemma openly comment that the boy is always, always watching them, knowing full well they’re within earshot of him. He doesn’t retaliate for this, they’re never punished for saying it. Why would he? It’s what he’s there to do. He knows they know he’s watching. Water is wet. The boy watches.

Of course, when he is older, and better at putting together conversations that sound like an actual person, Gemma is openly terrified of him. His mannerisms don’t change, but conversationally he seems to at least understand whats being said to him, and is willing to ask more in-depth questions, graduation from, “What’s a dog?” to “Why did you say ‘you’re welcome’?”

By the end of the movie, the boy matures into a man. He’s gotten a bit better at knowing which words to parrot at what time, something we can watch him improve upon as the movie goes, and still insists, to Gemma’s last breath, that she’s his mother and that she is home. Gemma dies telling him, “I’m not your fucking mother.”

This is maybe the only other genuine reaction we get from the boy: a disappointed, “Whatever,” before he zips up the bodybag and chucks her into the hole as well. He cleans up the house for the next occupants and leaves. He takes the now-dying realtor’s nametag and puts it on himself, folds up the old realtor and stuffs it in a drawer, and takes his place in the office ready to lure the next couple to the suburbs of Yonder, with words that almost, but not quite, convince you he’s a person, and by that point it’s too late. 

The boy was only ever there to make sure someone would be in Number 9 to make sure someone would be there to raise the next boy to make sure someone would be led to Number 9 to raise the next boy. 

And who among us haven’t left this exact message, or even said this exact thing out loud, to the bot hanging over our shoulder watching us constantly, politely asking if we want help or suggested content?

TLDR anyway yeah the movie is “capitalism bad nuclear family in suburbia is a banal hellscape” still but there’s LAYERS you see

[gretavanwagnerpls]

New Beginnings | chap. 1

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, drinking, language, smut…

Finally. You let yourself fall back onto the couch, your head hitting your favorite macrame pillow. It feels like the first time you have sat down in weeks after packing up the last 8 years of your life. Things to keep, things that hurt too much to keep, and things that belong to Matt that he left when he moved out last month, all sorted out across the living room floor. You’re proud of yourself, making it through the last few weeks with only a few nights of crying yourself to sleep on the bathroom floor. You knew it was what you both wanted… what you both needed, but letting go of someone who has been your best friend for the last 8 years was the hardest thing you have ever had to do.  

You drag yourself off the couch to start getting ready. You found yourself standing in front of the mirror picking yourself apart. The last year has been mentally and physically exhausting. Between the stress of infertility treatments and failed adoptions, now your divorce, you hardly recognized the person looking back at you in the mirror anymore. You were broken, beat down with nothing left to give the world, especially yourself… but today was the start of a new beginning. 

You looked through the last of the clothes that you had intentionally left out from packing to wear to court today. Today would be the first time you’ve seen Matt since you asked him for a divorce. You’ll never forget the look on his face. Your palms sweating, as you handed him the papers. You had rehearsed what you were going to say so much that you were physically sick when the time came, and then he didn’t even let you finish your speech. “How long have you had these” followed by “we’re selling the house, neither of us can afford it on our own” was all that he had to say. Everything was business with him, ‘lets cut to the chase’ type of conversations are all we’d had for the last 2 years. Part of you really thought he would reach out - maybe a drunk Friday night call asking you to come back, that you could work it out, but it never happened. The only message you received was asking when you would have your stuff out of the house so that the realtor could come take pictures to put the house on the market. You wanted to look your best today, let him know you were fine without him.  

You slide on your favorite wedged sandals and head out the door. You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Tears fill your eyes as you pull into the parking lot and see his truck next to the only open parking spot left. You step out and walk what felt like miles up the stairs and into the courthouse. You make your way to the courtroom doors, stopping to run your hands along the bottom of your sundress to smooth any wrinkles as you take a deep breath and reach out to pull the door open. As you step inside, Matt’s eyes meet yours as a grin stretches across his face. You look to the floor and make your way to your seat, on the opposite side of the courtroom. For the first time, he felt like a stranger to you. 

You feel your chest tighten with anxiety as you stand when the judge enters the room. He goes through what you assume is the normal speech he gives during divorce proceedings. “Once this document has my signature, you will no longer be legally married…” Your mind started to wander, you couldn’t wait to get out of here. You could see Matt’s head turn to yours, his stare burning into the side of your face, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look his way. 

“Do you understand, y/n?” the judge asked. You realized you missed the question, but nodded in agreement anyways. 

“Yes, sir” came out in a hushed tone, as you tried to keep composure.  

“Ok then, please wait 5 to 7 business days to hear from my office once I submit the final documentation. I wish you both nothing but the best in whatever the future may bring.” He stood from his chair, and made his way the judges chambers.  

You start to look Matt’s way and notice him already walking back to exit. You quickly gather your things and make your way to find him. You wanted to see if he would say anything to you or just leave like he did the last night you saw him. You see him standing at the back of his truck with his tailgate down, rearranging a bag that you had seen a thousand times. His golf clubs. You laugh to yourself, of course he is going golfing now. What else did you expect?  

You hated golf. Every year, every weekend was tied up with golf. Sweet weekend trips you planned for just the two of you to drive to see something new, always cancelled because you “should have known” he was golfing with so-and-so or he was going on a golf trip and would be out of state for a few days. Golf was Matt’s only hobby, so you tried your best to have him teach you how to play. You showed interest in hopes that you would be able to have more date nights and spend more time together, but he would never take the time to teach you. You bit your tongue the last six months of him saying you never wanted him to touch you or never wanted to spend time with him, but you wanted so badly to remind him of all the times you tried but he was “too busy” golfing.

He slammed the tailgate shut, and turned around to see you standing there. He walked towards you, holding out his arms for you to come to him like he always did before wrapping them around you for a hug. He smelled like a combination of Dior Sauvage and Red Seal Wintergreen, his usual scent.

“Take care of yourself, okay.” He whispered through your hair, his hands resting on your back before giving you a tight squeeze.

You choked back tears as you returned the hug. So many things you wanted to say, but it was as if your brain and tongue were working against you, keeping your thoughts trapped inside.

“You’ll always be my best friend. Not being with you everyday is something I’ll never get use to, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get over. I’m sorry, y/n, for everything. Maybe time will bring us back together again one day… and maybe it won’t and I’ll regret everything I never told you for the rest of my life. You deserve so much more. I love you.” A single tear fell as he placed a kiss on your forehead. You started to move your arm from his grip to reach to wipe away the tear from his cheek, when he turned and quickly walked around to his driver side door jumping in to his truck without looking back your way.

You watched him drive off as you made it into your vehicle. You sat in silence for what felt like hours, wondering if you made the right decision. Tears falling from your face, so many that it made wet stains on your sundress. Your phone starts to ring, it was Lilly.

You laugh as you watch her name run across your screen. It was as if she knew what you were thinking, all of the time. Her calls and texts came daily, but amplified when something was wrong. It was like she could read your mind no matter how many miles apart you were.

“Y/n… are you okay?” Lilly asked before you could even say hello.

“You know, I’m not sure how to answer that question. I was until I ran into him in the parking lot. He felt like a stranger today when I first saw him sitting in the courtroom, and then when we left he told me he loved me.. Lilly, did I make the right decision?” You say, as you begin to cry.

“Only you know the answer to that, Y/n. Sometimes the right decision is the hardest decision to make. You have lived your life to please everyone else for so long, I think you and I both know it’s time that you start enjoying your own life. Take a vacation, go somewhere you’ve always wanted to go, open your bridal shop, it’s your time now and I’ll be with you every step of the way.” Lilly said, you could hear the crack in her voice. She loved you like you were her own sister. She always knew what to say when you needed it the most.

“Thanks Lil. Just glad to have it behind me. I’m headed to the house to unload the last little bit of boxes. I will call you later, maybe we can meet up for a drink?” You ask, as you pull up to your new townhouse on the south side of town.

“Sure! Sounds perfect. Listen, if you need me or if you just need time… it’s okay. Whatever you need. I’m proud of you.” You smiled as you hung up the phone.

You made your way up to your new townhome. It was tucked down the most beautiful driveway, surrounded by beautiful, fresh landscaping. The pond surrounded by benches out front is what drew your eye to this place when you were looking for the new place you would call “home”.

After a few trips up and down the sidewalk, you finally laid the last little box on the kitchen island. You wheeled your suitcase back to the bedroom, and threw yourself onto the bed thinking back to your conversation with Lilly. Go somewhere you’ve always wanted to go.

Nashville. It didn’t take long before you found and booked the cutest AirBnb. You threw the essentials in your overnight bag, grabbed the three suitcases that had most of your clothing in them and loaded them in your trunk. You didn’t have time to go through them if you wanted to get to Nashville before dark.

On your way, you sent a text to Lil thanking her for the idea and a text to your mom letting her know you’re going out of town for the next two weeks. Lil responded with a playlist of songs from the group she has been dying to get you to listen to, Greta Van Fleet. Three songs in to their first album, you were hooked.

Just in time for your stomach to start telling you it was ready for dinner, you pulled up to your AirBnb. It was even more darling than the pictures online. A stepping stone walkway led to a most adorable arched doorway. The front door was painted turquoise. The front porch had a peaceful little sitting area with porcelain trinkets in the landscaping. You couldn’t wait to grab a book and sit here with a cup of coffee in the morning.

Inside you were met with vaulted ceilings full of skylights. You loved the open floor plan, with the exposed wooden beams, white walls, and dark wood flooring. This was your dream home. You wheeled your suitcase to the master bedroom and unloaded your makeup bag in the bathroom that housed a beautiful claw foot bathtub. This place couldn’t be any more perfect.

You gave yourself 45 minutes to freshen up and get ready for dinner before calling an Uber. You threw on your favorite pair of black distressed jeans and a floral lace crop top and your wedged sandals from earlier. When the Uber driver arrived, you were excited to see a woman your age in the driver seat.

You quickly asked her about the restaurant you listed as your destination and after a few minutes of asking her the typical tourist type of questions, she re-routed you to her favorite place for draft beer, delicious appetizers, and what she claims is the best chicken quesadilla she’s ever had. An actual angel.

This place was not visually what you were expecting, and it wasn’t anything like the bars on your “Must See” Pinterest list. A stone building with a small set of stairs leading to the entryway, you could tell the bar had been around for a while. A friendly face greeted you behind the bar.

“Sit anywhere you’d like honey, I’ll be right with you.” She winked, and nodded her head towards the booths along the wall. You sat down and watched groups of friends and couples playing pool, laughing and talking amongst themselves. You missed your friends, and you were starting to wish you would have brought them along with you.

Your food arrives and you nibble on it for a few minutes as you sit and people watch when a group of guys enter the bar. Each of them dressed uniquely, wearing embellished jumpsuits, mesh tops, open button ups, and tight fitting pants. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of them, watching them make their way around the room making conversation, laughing, and singing together to the music playing from the overhead speakers.

After your fourth vodka cranberry, you make your way to pay your tab, fumbling around in your purse for your wallet and phone when you bump into someone, feeling their drink run down your arm and watching it spill all over their chest. Your eyes make your way up their chest, to the beautiful curls resting on their shoulders, finally meeting their eyes. You swallow hard when you realize it was one of the guys you’ve been watching most of the night.

“I am so sorry, I wasn’t even paying attention… I am so sor…” you cover your face with your hands in embarrassment until he interrupts you.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay. Here, take these.” He interrupts, handing you a stack of beverage napkins from the bar. You watch him as he lifts his shirt and wipes off his stomach underneath. You felt your cheeks go warm from embarrassment as he catches your eyes watching his hands guide the napkins across his stomach, wiping the drink you just spilled all over him. He winks at you, reaching out his hand.

“Here, I’ll take those.” He says, as he grabs the drink soaked napkins. “Danny, what’s your name?”

“Uh.. y/n… I’m really sorry ag...” You start as he interrupts again.

“Stop apologizing, it really is fine. What are you drinking, let me get it.” He pulls a credit card from the back of his phone case and gives it to the bartender, asking her to keep the tab open. You make your way back to your booth with your drink after saying thank you. You fumble through your purse again trying to find your phone to get an Uber, when you feel someone start to slide in to the booth beside you. Him again.

“So, y/n. What brings you here?” He asks, as he pulls a clip from his flannel pocket and twists his hair up. After a few seconds of watching him pull little pieces of hair out to frame his beautifully structured face, you realize he caught you staring. Your face turns flush for the second time tonight.

“Trying to find myself I guess, somewhere that no one knows me. Nashville was on my list of places to visit so I decided at noon today that’s where I was headed. I found a sweet little AirBnb for a few weeks and I’m just trying to figure out life and clear my head a little.” You say, staring down at your glass.

“What’s waiting on you back home? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?” He laughs, as he shoots back the last of his beer before turning and motioning to the bartender for two more drinks.

“Nothing right now. My mom. My friends. A bunch of moving boxes that I need to unpack.” You laugh nervously. “Where is home for you?”

“This is home now. I’m originally from Michigan, but me and the guys moved here when our music started to take off. It was weird at first, moving to a busy place like this, but it really grows on you. We’ve met a lot of really wonderful people that have helped us and taught us a lot.” His face lit up talking about his music and you couldn’t wait to hear more. The bartender sat down the drinks, you knew you needed to sip this one a little slower.

“Anyways, tell me more about you. You said you’re here trying to clear your mind?” He asked, this time looking directly at you as you watch his eyes travel over your face taking in all of your facial features. You start to get embarrassed, wondering what he is thinking, but you can’t look away.

“I’m divorced… as of 13 hours ago. I graduated from college with a degree in business administration but I haven’t used it because he didn’t want me to work. Last week I officially became a home owner for the first time, and I’m just trying to find myself. Who I want to be, where I want to be, what makes me happy. That’s what I am hoping this trip brings me.” You watched him look down, wondering what he was thinking. Divorce was probably a lot heavier than he was expecting, and you start to wonder if you should have left that part out.

“I’m so sorry. That’s heavy. How are you holding up? How long were you and your husband together?” He asks, with a sincere look of concern. Someone who listens, how nice.

“If you would have asked me 10 hours ago, I would have had a different answer, but now I’m good. Really good. We were together for almost 10 years. We both knew it was time to let go. I think that’s what makes it a little easier. There’s no hard feelings, no bad blood. Just two people that tried to make it work for the last two years when there wasn’t really anything left to hold onto, if that makes sense.” You look down at your glass again, running your finger around the rim has become the nights nervous habit. A few minutes of silence pass, and you are preparing yourself for him to excuse himself from the heavy conversation.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for and I hope this trip shows you who you are meant to be. I think it’s admirable that you are taking the time to travel to a new place, alone, and you are willing to put in the effort to find yourself and what truly makes you happy and you’re sticking to that. Some people never find that and what a sad life that must be for them. I’m proud of you.” He said, finally, as he reaches to rest his hand on yours, sending what felt like electricity through your body. You smiled back, unable to form words. His touch left you speechless. You weren’t sure if it was the drink talking, but this man was the most attractive man you had ever met. Not only was he beautiful to look at, but you could tell he had the most genuine soul. All you wanted was to sit and talk to him as long as time would allow, but you knew you didn’t have much longer before the bar closed and you needed to get an Uber back to your Airbnb.

“I should probably get going, they close in an hour and I still need to put in for a ride back. It’s been so nice talking to you Danny. Thanks for listening, and for the drinks.” You laugh, as you place your hand on his bicep. Another heat wave flows through your body.

“Hey no problem! Look, my shirts dry.” He said laughing. You turn to walk away as you hear the guys come up behind him.

“Where might you be going, ma’am.” One of the guys say, in a drunken slur.

“Hey, wait! Why don’t you let us take you back? Where are you staying?” Danny asks. You hand him your phone so he can copy the address into his phone. “It’s only a few minutes down the road from Sam’s place. Just ride with us.” You felt relieved. You really didn’t want to wait by yourself, and to be honest you really didn’t want the night to end either.

Each of the guys step in to meet you, introducing themselves and making conversation. Josh was beautiful, his smile contagious. Sam was dressed in a full red suit, and between his outfit and his perfect jaw structure you could hardly concentrate on the conversation happening around you. Jake stood leaned with his arms crossed against the pool table, watching his brothers and laughing at the conversation. He was dressed in all black with only the bottom button of his shirt done, and small round black sunglasses that were perfectly placed at the bridge of his nose. Each of them were comically theatrical, talking with fake accents and pushing each-other around. They reminded you of your friends. You found yourself once again wishing they were with you.

“Hey, you alright?” Danny asked, rubbing his hand along the middle of your back. He’s really got to stop doing this to you. You nod your head and smile, realizing that his hand is still resting on the middle of your back as he’s standing there laughing and joking with the rest of the group.

The group begins to make their way to the door to leave. You walk down the sidewalk, illuminated by just a few street lights. You see someone jump from a large black bus and wave to the guys, who start to yell in excitement. As you make your way to the bus the guys usher you to the front as Josh grabs your hand to help you in. There were bench seats, coolers, guitars, drumsticks spread along the back of the bus which peaked your interest as you remember Danny telling you back at the bar that they moved to Nashville for their music.

“Want one?” Jake asks from behind his sunglasses, holding out a bottle of water.

“Probably a good idea.” You laugh. As you take the lid off and start to take a drink Danny slides in beside of you, so close that your legs and shoulders are touching.

“Hit the spot?” You both laugh, as Danny points out the amount of water you drank from the bottle. “We are going to drop Jake and Josh at their places first and then we will take you on the way to Sammy’s.”

The bus was quiet once they had dropped Jake and Josh off. Their constant bickering, singing, and laughter was entertaining enough you were almost sad that they had to go. A few minutes later, you find yourself lost watching Sam play the guitar, his fingers dancing along the strings so effortlessly. You shift yourself in the seat to make yourself more comfortable when you realize Danny’s hand is resting on your thigh. How long has that been there?

“This look right?” Danny asks. You wish the drive was a little bit longer.

“Ah yes, that would be mine.” You say as you gather your things and get ready to step off the bus, Danny following closely behind.

“Can I walk you to the door?” Danny asked as he jumps down, reaching his hand to help you out of the bus.

“Sure. I forgot to leave the porch light on. There’s a few steps so just be careful.” You warn him as you step down, holding his hand to keep your balance. Instead of letting go, his fingers lock with yours as you make your way to the door. What is happening?

“I really enjoyed talking to you tonight. Me and the guys have a show in a couple days. You should come if you’re still down here. I can text you the details, if you want.” He says, as he lets your hand go from his grip, placing his own in his pockets.

“I would really like that.” You say, as he hands you his phone to put in your contact information. How do you tell him you don’t want tonight to end? You take your time typing your name, trying to muster up the courage to come in, stay the night. Are you crazy? You’ve been divorced for less than 24 hours. Is this what this trip is going to consist of, one night stands and late drunken nights?

“Do you want to come in?” The words fell from your mouth before you could even catch them. Maybe it was the alcohol, but you didn’t regret it. His eyes fixed on yours, a look of surprise on his face. It felt like minutes before he finally gave an answer, leaving you anxious.

“Uh, sure. Let me let Sam know.” He walked back to the bus as you type in the code to unlock the door. You walk in to find the mess you left earlier when you were rummaging through all your suitcases to find an out fit to wear. You hurry, trying to pick up as much as you can and shove what you collect into your open suitcases.

“Wow. Nice place.” Danny says as he looks around the room. A grin creeps across his face as he notices you shoving the explosion of clothing into every bag you could find.

“Leave me alone, I had a hard time deciding what to wear.” You laugh, as you put the last little bit in the suitcase.

He walks toward you, taking your hand. “You made a great choice” he says, spinning you around in a circle. You laugh as you fall into his chest, both of you landing on the couch. Your face inches from his, he reaches out his hand placing it on the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he places a kiss on your lips.

Before you knew it, his hands moved from your neck, down to your shoulders, across your chest and down into the back pocket of your black denim jeans. He’s pushing you onto him, leaving no space between you.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, as he pushes you up by your shoulders.

You don’t respond but instead move your legs to straddle him, facing him as you begin pressing yourself against the hardening bulge you feel underneath you, hoping this would show him just how okay with this you were.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He says, nuzzling his nose into your neck, placing soft kisses in a trail up to your ear. You begin to move yourself in rocking motion against him as you watch his head fall back against the couch. You tease him by placing small, soft kisses to tickle his neck until you reach his ear, placing your teeth on his earlobe.

“Come with me.” You say, standing and reaching out for his hand to lead him back to the bedroom. You shut the blinds and turn on the bedside lamp. You turn around to see him standing with his shirt off, leaning against the dresser. You make your way over to him and begin to pull off your shirt, leaving your breasts exposed.

“My god, I didn’t think you could be anymore perfect.” He places a kiss at the top of each of your breasts before taking your nipples between his fingers, squeezing and placing a small twist on each. Your head goes back as you let out a moan.

You run your hands along his belt, finding the buckle. You start to undo his zipper, pulling down his boxers with them. He cups his hand under your chin, pulling you up to meet him. You feel him stroke his length with his hand between you a few times as he placed another kiss at the side of your neck.

“How do you want it?” He whispers in your ear. You pull him to the bed, pushing him down to his back. You crawl between his legs taking him in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip to tease him before taking his entire length into the back of your throat. He let out a loud moan, placing his hand in your hair as he grabs a handful and begins to pull. You reach up to meet his arms pinning them down to his sides, you want to show him you are in control.

“Come here.” He says, pulling you up to meet him face to face. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that to me.”

He flips you onto your back, climbing on top of you. A trail of kisses start from your cheek, down your neck, and then across your chest until he reaches your nipples, giving both of them the same amount of attention taking them between his teeth and biting down with just the perfect amount of pressure to make your eyes roll back into your head. You arch your back, pushing yourself up to him as if you are begging him for more. He looks up at you with a grin. This man knows what he is doing. His hand making his way to your center, he slips two fingers in between.

“Mhmm… wet for me?” He says as he moved his fingers into you, up and down before slipping the length of them inside of you. Picking up speed, you can’t control the sounds coming from your lips. Your head rolls back as you feel a rush come over you. You were close to your limit as your legs started to quiver.

“Tell me what you want.” He whispers as he brings his fingers to his mouth. What the fuck.

You reach out to grab his length, rubbing your hand up and down. You spread your legs as you pull him closer to you. You were shy when it came to this, the talking and telling him what you want. You felt your cheeks turn red as he continued to ask you to tell him what you wanted, tell him how you like it.

“Hard.” You barely manage to force out of your mouth.

“Tell me what you want hard, baby?” he says with a grin. Shit, he’s going to make you say it isn’t he?

“I want you to fuck me… hard.” You say, as your voice cracks from nervousness.

“I’ll do anything for you.” He says, with the most seductive look in his eyes as he moves to the end of the bed, standing up before wrapping each of his arms around your legs. He pulls you to the edge of the bed, and begins to tease you a little more by placing the tip of his length in just a little before pulling it out again quickly.

He picks up speed as his length fills you completely. You realize you can’t control the sounds coming from your mouth as he moves his thumb quickly at your sweet spot as he thrusts into you harder and harder. You scream his name as you make a failed attempt to lift your head to look at him, just for your head to fall back against the pillows again. The sounds of pleasure come from both of your mouths as you feel his warmth inside of you. At the same time? His body falls onto yours as he reaches his hand hand to sweep the hair back from your face.

“You’re so beautiful.” He says sweetly, kissing you and pulling your hand across his chest so that you are wrapped around him.

“Thank you for tonight… all of it. One hell of a welcome to Nashville.” You laugh. Tonight was not at all what you expected, but you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

You stayed up for the next hour talking about your parents, your home town, your siblings, past jobs. It was so easy to talk to Danny, and you never wanted to stop, but you felt your eyes start to get heavy.

“Go to sleep babe. What’s your coffee order? I’ll have Sam pick it up on his way and it will be on the counter when you wake up.” He must have noticed you fighting sleep. You watched him type out your Starbucks order before he turned to plug his phone into the charger and turn off the lamp. He shuffled around until you could tell he was finally comfortable and when you turned to give him space he pulled you in, holding you closer.

“Sweet dreams.” He whispers and a few minutes later he’s sound asleep, his beautiful curls resting against the top of your head.

[autisticsupervillain]

Agent 47 is an Avatar of The Stranger!

Agent 47 simply does not exist as far as international law enforcement agencies are concerned. The most the world has to go on involving him is recurrent myths about a bald "Hitman" with indistinct facial features.

47 is a master of disguise, specializing in disguising himself as seemingly anyone in your life to get close and kill you. He has, on several occasions, disguised himself as his target's family members and loved ones to kill them and can feasibly disguise himself as anyone you might meet on the street. He always inexplicably has the skills needed to perform whatever tasks his disguise demands, from a rock star, to a psychiatrist, to a priest.

Deliberately sets up most of his kills to look like accidents to avoid investigation or simply hides or destroys his victim's bodies entirely, eliminating them without a trace. He's a metaphorical ghost who, nine times out of ten, only kills his target and leaves no evidence behind yo suggest there was even a murder at all.

And, yes, he fits the clown and performer motif. 47 has quite the sense of humor on top of great acting chops, frequently amusing himself with thinly veiled murder puns while leading his targets on. Also, the clown suit:

One of 47's most consistent character traits is that there's always something slightly off about him. Even when trying to relax, he keeps his posture perfectly straight. He rarely ever emotes regardless of the circumstances he's in, be they ridiculous or serious, and his attempts at passing as a normal human are always slightly flawed. For example, that time he disguised himself as a realtor and tried to sell a house by discussing how easy it would be to kill someone in its rooms.

His most iconic quote? "Names are for friends, so I don't have one."

Alternatives

The Lonely

One of 47's most established character traits is his isolation. He feels he cannot live a normal life because of "what he is" and keeps everyone at arms length. He lives completely alone, can't live in one location for long to avoid detection, and can't even spend his immense wealth on any luxaries without risking his safety.

The people who mean the most to him, such as Diana, rarely ever see him outside of work and usually contact him from the other side of the world via temporary and disposable communication methods.

The Hunt

Hired Assassin. Speaks for itself.

Prefers to eliminate his targets by meticulously stalking them, learning everything he can about their routines and habits to set up the perfect kill. He prides himself on "selling perfection" and is most at home plotting an elaborate kill.

[bestpricehomebuying]

Selling Your House Fast: Expert Tips and Tricks

Is a quick sale of your home in your future? You may be relocating to a different city for work, or you could be reducing your workforce. It might be difficult, but not impossible, to sell your property quickly for whatever reason you may have. You can attract potential customers and quickly conclude the purchase with the help of some professional tips and methods. From hiring a real estate agent to preparing your property for showings, this piece can help you sell your home quickly. Read on if you're looking for information on how to quickly sell my house in Omaha.

Working with a real estate agent is a frequent strategy for quick home sales. A licensed real estate agent will know how to maximize your home's selling price.

Look for an agent who is well-versed in the area's real estate market and has a history of closing deals. Think about the commission they'll charge you and the strategies they'll use to sell your house.

Once you've settled on a reliable agent, they'll walk you through the entire selling procedure. This involves things like determining a fair asking price, making engaging ads, and haggling with prospective buyers.

You may increase your home's marketability with the help of an expert realtor's suggestions. They could provide advice on minor repairs or staging that might increase interest and speed up the selling process.

If you're looking to sell your property quickly for a good price, working with a professional real estate agent may be a huge help. Tips for selling your house fast You may improve your odds of making a quick sale of your home by doing a few simple steps. You should, first and foremost, set a reasonable price for your house. See what other houses like yours are selling for in the neighbourhood. If your house is priced too high, potential buyers may pass it by.

One further piece of advice is to fix up the house and modernize it before putting it up for sale. Things like painting the walls or repairing the faucets that always drip are examples of this. Adding these minor details will greatly increase your home's attractiveness to potential purchasers.

Before presenting your home to potential buyers, you should also remove all personal items and clutter. Get rid of family photographs and religious art so potential buyers can see themselves living there.

To get the best possible images of your house for online listings, it may be worthwhile to hire a professional photographer. Having professional-quality photographs taken may make a huge difference in luring consumers.

Hold open houses and other showings whenever you can. Because prospective buyers may have hectic schedules, it's important to plan showings at various times of the week. How to stage your home for sale If you employ these strategies, you can sell your home quickly without compromising profit. Always consult a professional real estate agent to make sure your marketing efforts are effective and that all necessary paperwork is completed. Staging also makes potential buyers feel more at ease in the house, increasing the likelihood that they will make an offer.

If you know what you're doing, selling your home quickly doesn't have to be a difficult ordeal. Working with professionals and employing a few key methods may make selling your home swiftly stress-free and result in a terrific outcome: the highest possible price for your home.

[wholesalinghouses]

Real Estate Wholesaling

Real estate wholesaling is a short-term investing strategy used by some investors to generate quick cash and potentially large profits over a short timeframe.

Real estate wholesalers specialize in finding distressed off-market properties at discounted prices from owners, and then contract with them to take them off their hands at a reduced cost in return for fees from investors.

Find a Property

Real estate wholesaling is a type of real estate investing that involves finding distressed properties, reaching an agreement with their homeowner and selling them without actually owning the property yourself - charging wholesale fees between 5- 10% of its sale price for doing so.

If you're seeking homes to wholesale, the first step should be driving through neighborhoods and noting properties that require repairs. This will give you an idea of what is happening within the community as well as an understanding of how many properties may be for sale in it.

Direct mail can also be an excellent way to contact homeowners interested in selling their home, as this method helps identify motivated sellers willing to sell at an economical price.

Negotiate a Price

As part of wholesaling, negotiations with sellers on price are vitally important to your process.

Idealistically, your goal should be to acquire property at a reduced price and sell it later for a profit. Depending on the market and situation, this may involve seeking homes listed below market value with extensive repairs necessary, or those facing foreclosure or distress as potential opportunities.

To be successful at wholesaling, you must possess strong negotiation skills and a comprehensive knowledge of your local real estate market. Furthermore, you should familiarize yourself with any laws in your region related to wholesaling.

Sign a Contract

Real estate wholesaling is an investing strategy characterized by finding motivated sellers and making offers they simply can't refuse. Although it can produce fast profits, real estate wholesaling takes more time, money and effort than other forms of real estate investment.

Contracts that provide protections for both parties involved are essential. A contingency clause could allow you as the wholesaler to exit from a deal if you're unable to secure a buyer before its expiry.

Wholesalers frequently deal with distressed properties in need of repair. Therefore, it's essential that they inspect each property thoroughly to assess its condition before signing a contract and risk losing money on something worthless or unsellable.

Find a Cash Buyer

Finding a cash buyer is the key to successful real estate wholesaling. These investors enjoy flipping houses quickly, so finding one quickly could yield great rewards.

Once you find a distressed property, reach out to a cash buyer list that you have created in order to see if any buyers may be willing to buy at a discounted price - giving you the chance to sell at a higher price and earn a greater return on your investment.

Search online classifieds and public records to locate cash buyers; alternatively, speak with local realtors who may know any investors who have purchased properties using cash transactions recently.

Reassign the Contract

Real estate wholesale is an effective strategy for new investors to enter the market and begin earning income; however, getting started can be complex.

Wholesalers use purchase agreements with sellers as the foundation of their transactions; once in place, these contracts contain the appropriate language allowing the wholesaler to transfer it on to outside investors for investment purposes.

Wholesalers sell property that was originally bought directly by buyers without incurring liability or obligation from those buyers, and receive payment in return through an assignment fee; at this point they relinquish control of their contract to wholesalers.

[hakesbros]

New Homes For Sale In Albuquerque, Nm

The Albuquerque Public Schools school district caters to over ninety,000 students’ instructional needs and is praised for its diversity. To see all the homes you’ve saved, visit the My Favorites section of your account. Zillow Group is dedicated to ensuring digital accessibility for individuals with disabilities. We are repeatedly working to improve the accessibility of our net expertise for everybody, and we welcome suggestions and accommodation requests. If you want to report a difficulty or search an lodging, please tell us.

To really appreciate your new hometown’s place in historical past, discover an apartment close to Albuquerque’s historic Old Town district, the place many homes are on the National Register of Historic Places. There’s stay weekend entertainment throughout the summer in Old Town Plaza, and a few of the city’s best buying too. Albuquerque was established in 1706 as a Spanish colonial outpost, with a village constructed up around a central plaza .

The self-proclaimed “outdoor enthusiast’s paradise,” Albuquerque boasts 300-plus days of sunshine every year. Albuquerque can be highly-regarded as a cultural center of the Southwest thanks to museums like the Maxwell Museum of Anthropology, Indian Pueblo Cultural Center and New Mexico Museum of Natural History. Active homebuilders within the area embrace Pulte Homes, Twilight Homes, RayLee Homes, Abrazo Homes, and Tiara Homes contributing their expertise and prime quality customer support to the house new home builders in albuquerque process. Situated on the middle of the New Mexico Technology Corridor, Albuquerque boasts a concentration of high-tech private firms and authorities establishments alongside the Rio Grande. Many know-how fields operate here and account for almost half of the state's economic activity. Other financial drivers embody authorities, agriculture, tourism, manufacturing, and analysis & improvement.

The info is for client's private, non-commercial use and is most likely not used for any objective other than figuring out properties which customers may be thinking about buying. So if you are ready to take advantage of each alternative that this market has to supply. In addition, share our technique for serving to you reach them without pulling your hair out in the process. As your actual property agent, we promise you'll at all times have a clear understanding of the entire image. When it comes to buying and selling real property in a market as unique as Albuquerque you know you can’t afford to place your belief and hard-earned cash in the palms of any Realtor®.

ABQnews Seeker Albuquerque Publishing Co. is looking for ... Albuquerque Publishing Co. is searching for a substitute for Journal Editor and Senior Vice President Karen Moses, who will retire this yr. The technical storage or entry is required to create consumer profiles to ship promoting, or to track the person on a internet site or across a quantity of websites for related advertising purposes. The New Mexico Regulation and Licensing Department regulates more new homes albuquerque than 500,000 people and companies in 35 industries, professions, and trades across the state. Our aim is to assure that New Mexicans receive quality companies from qualified people and businesses whereas additionally ensuring a fair and immediate administrative course of. The West Berry Senior Apartments, an reasonably priced housing improvement supported largely by The New Mexico Mortgage Finance Authorities , broke ground earlier this month.

Visit our News & Advice part to learn extra about buying and leasing commercial actual estate, from calculating the appropriate amount of space to the terms you need to perceive. Marco Santarelli is an investor, writer, Inc. 5000 entrepreneur, and the founder new homes for sale albuquerque of Norada Real Estate Investments – a nationwide provider of turnkey cash-flow investment property. His mission is to help 1 million folks create wealth and passive earnings and put them on the trail to monetary freedom with real property. He’s also the host of the top-rated podcast – Passive Real Estate Investing.

At Sivage Homes we imagine your home and its location must be an extension of your Lifestyle. All Sivage Communities are strategically situated to grant entry to native facilities and actions, all within close proximity of your home. Whether you're homes for sale in albuquerque new mexico on the lookout for climbing trails, dining, or a fast commute, every community offers a novel advantage for a way our clients stay. See the present MLS listings of homes for sale in Albuquerque.

Look for Albuquerque apartments near top-ranking excessive colleges like La Cueva High, Nex Gen Academy, and Sandia High. The average lease for a studio condo in Albuquerque, NM is $860 per thirty days. When you hire an house in Albuquerque, you'll find a way to count on to pay as little as $860 or as much as $1,886, depending on the situation and the scale of the condo. For extra adventurous outings, large homes for sale in albuquerque nm nature preserves sit simply exterior town limits. Albuquerque borders the Sandia Mountains to the east, with the Manzano vary and Valles Caldera National protect close by offering infinite opportunities to discover New Mexico’s rugged and beautiful pure landscape. Just like the town itself, Albuquerque’s delicacies is a medley of tons of of years of Mexican, European, and Native American influences.

[thelupogroupnjexp]

The Best Real Estate Agents In NJ For You To Check Out!

Are you ready to learn how to make your home more enjoyable? If so, then you’ll want to explore the world of real estate. The best way to do that is by learning the ins and outs of being an agent. It’s no wonder that many Realtors in NJ have over 3 decades of experience. They understand what works for their clients and what doesn’t. This means they can provide you with the most accurate and reliable advice possible. So where do you start? Well, if you’re looking to become an agent, then here are some great places to begin:

What Is a Real Estate Agent crypto company?

The real estate industry is a business model built around the purchase and sale of individual home lots. The buyer pays the seller for the right to live in the house and the right to repair or sell the home at any time during the term of the contract. The seller retains all of the benefits of the home, like the security of tenure and the right to negotiate a final contract. You’re probably already familiar with this company model, but there are some distinctions that will make it stand out from the crowd. A real estate agent’s job is to help people find homes and find prospective homebuyers. They also help to promote and sell the services of the agencies that handle their transactions.

How to get started as a real estate agent?

There are a few steps that you need to take to get started as a Realtors in NJ. Before you go into business for yourself, make sure that you’ve got a plan for how you’re going to make the most of your time as an agent. Planning a marketing plan? How about a promotional plan? You’ll need to know how to conduct yourself as an agent—and what steps to take during the process. Get your hands on some experience. You don’t need to be a seasoned real estate veteran to start making money quickly and Effectively. The best way to get started is to learn as much as possible from the people you work with. Get to know the people at all stages of your profession, from sales to research and negotiation. Learn their quirks and pet peeves so you can be better prepared when you’re in the business for yourself.

The 3 benefits of becoming an agent

There are a few things that becoming an agent can bring to your life, and you might not even realize it. As an agent, you’ll have access to a wide variety of clients, including buyers, and sellers, and all of the stages of the buying and selling process. These clients can range from large corporations to independent contractors. You’ll be working with people all around the world, so you’ll have a wide range of clients to choose from. You’ll also be working with people who don’t always know what they’re talking about when it comes to buying or selling property. In this world of instant gratification, you’ll have clients who may promise to send you photos of the finished product and then let you walk away without a single picture. These people are likely trying to sell you something that you don’t actually need—or want.

Are there really only two ways to become a real estate agent?

There are actually three ways to become a real estate agent: The Home Equity Loan (HEL) Program. This is a federal loan program that helps homeowners who can’t afford to keep renting. The DeeperHome Credit Union. This is a community credit union that helps you access resources and services that can help you get ready for the real estate industry.

Which agency is right for you?

There are several different ways to get started as a Realtors in NJ. You can either go into business for yourself or choose a colleague or former colleague as your business partner. You can also go into business for yourself and call your partner your “sire.” If you’re going with a colleague, it’s important to look up to see what other colleagues are doing in the industry. If you’re going with your own business, you should also think about looking up and seeing what other successful real estate entrepreneurs are doing today. You can also learn a lot from fellow real estate investors. Take advantage of their expertise when you’re in the business for yourself. By learning a little bit about each type of real estate investment, you can have a better chance of investment success in the long run.

It’s no secret that being an agent is a great job. It’s also a good opportunity to learn the ins and outs of the industry and find potential clients. Whether you want to become an agent for the long haul or just want to learn more about what it takes to become an agent, you’ll benefit greatly from spending some time as an agent. If you’ve got the time, energy, and money to invest in yourself, becoming an agent is a great way to start. There are a few ways to go about this, but the end goal is to become an expert in your field.

[tomicproperties]

Things To Consider When Taking The Lead For Selling Your House

Wondering how to sell your house without a realtor? Then connect withTomic Properties, one of the leading cash home buyers who can ensure you get the best price for your house. It can allow you to sell your house without the hassle of renovation and get the deal done as soon as possible. This way, your journey of taking the lead in selling your house can turn into significant earnings.  Read this blog, to learn more.

[smayrafashion]

"Top 5 Property Dealers in Delhi: Your Guide to the Best Real Estate Agents"

Delhi, the heart of India, is the political capital and also a hive of real estate activity. Whether you're looking to buy, sell, or invest in property, finding a reliable dealer is crucial to navigating this dynamic market. Here, we present the "Top 5 property dealers in Delhi", guiding you to the best real estate agents who can help turn your property dreams into reality. Why Choosing the Right Property Dealer Matters? Navigating Delhi's competitive real estate market can be challenging without any guidance. A professional property dealer not only helps you to find the best properties but also ensures that you get the most value for your investment. Here are a few reasons why choosing the right property dealer is important:-

Expertise and Market Knowledge: A Best property dealer has a deep understanding and knowledge of market trends, new ideas, property values, and the legalities involved in real estate transactions. This expertise helps in making informed easy decisions easily.

Wide Organizer and Listings: Established property dealers have their vast network and extensive listings, providing more options to choose from and where and what is the best.

Negotiation Skills: Experienced Real estate agents have strong negotiation skills, ensuring that you get the best possible and dreamy deal whether you are buying or selling.

Legal Assistance: Property exchange involves a complex legal process. A reliable dealer ensures that all legal documentation is handled accurately, preventing future disputes.

Personalized Services and Benefits: A good property dealer understands your specific needs and preferences, offering the best solutions to you that match your requirements and budget. How to Choose the Best Property Dealer Choosing the right property dealer involves careful consideration of several factors. Here are some tips to help you make the right choice:

Check Credentials: Ensure that the dealer is licensed and has a good reputation in the market. Also, look for certifications and affiliations with real estate associations.

Experience Matters: Choose a dealer with years of experience and a proven track record in the Delhi real estate market.

Client Reviews: Read reviews and testimonials from previous clients to get the quality of service you need.

Transparency: Get a dealer who maintains transparency in their dealings and provides you with clear information about fees, commissions, and other charges.

Communication: Effective communication is key, Choose a dealer who is responsive and keeps you updated throughout the whole process. The List of Top- 5 Best Property Dealers in Delhi are:

"Fullinspace: Your Trusted Real Estate Partner" Fullinspace has earned its reputation as the best property dealer in Delhi, offering unparalleled services and expertise. Specializing in residential and commercial properties, Fullinspace stands out for its customer-centric approach, extensive market knowledge, and vast network of satisfied clients. Whether you're a first-time homebuyer or a seasoned investor, Fullinspace provides tailored solutions to meet your unique needs, ensuring a seamless and stress-free experience. Fullinspace also helps you with your interior designs. They offer many luxury properties according to their client requirements.

"ABC Realtors" ABC Realtors is renowned for its comprehensive real estate services across Delhi. Known for their professional approach and transparent dealings, ABC Realtors excels in understanding the specific requirements of their clients. They offer many properties, from luxury apartments to affordable housing, making them a different choice for a diverse client.

"Cityscape Realtors" Cityscape Realtors is another leading property dealer in Delhi, known for their innovative solutions and extensive market insights. They have a dedicated team of professionals who assist clients in finding the perfect property for investment or personal use. Cityscape Realtors are particularly noted for their expertise in commercial properties, helping businesses to find locations to thrive.

"Urban Nest Realty" Urban Nest Realty prides itself on its personalized service and in-depth knowledge of the Delhi real estate market. They offer a diverse range of properties and specialize in high-end residential projects. Urban Nest Realty's agents are well-versed in the latest market trends and are dedicated to providing clients with the best options to suit their lifestyles and budgets.

"Dreamland Realtors" Dreamland Realtors is a dynamic real estate firm that offers innovative solutions and exceptional service. They specialize in a variety of properties, including residential, commercial, and retail spaces. Dreamland Realtors' proactive approach and dedication to client satisfaction have established them as one of the top property dealers in Delhi. Conclusion:- Delhi's real estate market offers an open opportunity, and finding the right property dealer can make all the difference in your buying or selling experience. The top property dealers listed above, especially Fullinspace, stand out for their exceptional service, market expertise, and commitment to client satisfaction. By choosing the right partner, you can navigate the complexities of the real estate market with ease and confidence, turning your property dreams into reality.

[worldtopnews99]

Louisiana Direct Home Buyers

Louisiana Direct Home Buyers: Your Trusted Partner for Stress-Free Home Selling

Are you facing the daunting task of selling your home? Whether it's due to relocation, financial difficulties, or inheriting unwanted property, Louisiana Direct Home Buyers is here to alleviate your worries and provide you with hassle-free solutions.

At Louisiana Direct Home Buyers, we understand that selling your home can be overwhelming, and that's why we prioritize listening to your needs. Our dedicated team takes the time to understand your unique situation before presenting you with tailored options to solve your housing dilemma.

When you choose Louisiana Direct Home Buyers, you're not just selling your house – you're gaining a trusted partner with years of experience in the real estate market. Here's why we stand out from the rest:

Expert Guidance: With our extensive experience in buying houses, we provide invaluable insights into the market and help you navigate your selling journey with confidence. Whether you're considering listing your home with a realtor or selling directly to an investor, we'll equip you with the knowledge to make informed decisions.

Customized Solutions: We recognize that every homeowner's situation is unique. That's why we offer personalized solutions tailored to your specific needs. Whether you need a quick cash offer or prefer alternative methods to maximize your profit, we have the flexibility to accommodate your preferences.

No Pressure Approach: Unlike traditional home-selling processes that may pressure you into making rushed decisions, Louisiana Direct Home Buyers operates with integrity and transparency. We believe in empowering you to make the best choice for your situation, without any undue pressure. You're free to say "no" at any point in the process – your satisfaction is our priority.

Better Than Cash Alternative: At Louisiana Direct Home Buyers, we go above and beyond to ensure you get the most value for your property. Our innovative "better than cash" alternative offers you the opportunity to receive even more money for your home, providing a win-win solution for both parties involved.

Stress-Free Transactions: Selling your home should be a seamless and stress-free experience. With Louisiana Direct Home Buyers, you can rest assured knowing that we handle all the details, from paperwork to closing, with efficiency and professionalism. We strive to make the entire process as smooth as possible, allowing you to focus on the next chapter of your life.

Don't let the challenges of selling your home overwhelm you. Trust Louisiana Direct Home Buyers to guide you through the process with expertise, integrity, and a commitment to your satisfaction. Contact us today at 504-732-1988 or visit our website at Louisiana Direct Home Buyers to learn more about how we can help you achieve your real estate goals.

[whistlerrealestatelisting]

Want To Sell Your House

Several homeowners prefer selling their property on their own. There can be countless reasons as to why this decision can be a terrible idea for many. Houses no more get sold by putting up the ‘for sale’ sign in front of the property. Many of you may be aware of this. With huge advancements in the information technology, marketing of real estate has also undergone rapid changes. Thus, it is quite important that you know the current trends to follow and hire real estate agents who can guide you through the process. Reputed companies carrying on business in real estate in Whistler always suggest sellers be in contact with the top realtors to get true values of their properties.

Social Networks Helps You To Be Forefront:

Social networks have turned out to be indispensable tools for the selling of properties. Not only do you get huge contacts via the network but the agent can also keep updating the progress of the deal. An active presence online is not only essential for the advertisement of your properties but it also facilitates interaction of the agents with peers and clients.

3D Viewing Of Property:

This concept of viewing the property is increasingly becoming popular. The buyers can view every corner of your house without visiting there physically. Using the headset to explore virtual reality, one feels that they are walking around the property. This concept is specifically helpful if you have a buyer from outside the city who cannot come down physically to view the property. It is particularly the trend for luxurious properties but soon the concept is going to get democratized.

Videos On The Roll:

Posting pictures of each room of your house is an old concept these days. How about making a video instead? You can give the viewers a tour in each of the rooms of your house and also show them the neighborhood and landscape surrounding the property. The video can also contain the amenities and services that are easily available in the area you live. In short, you are giving them an idea about the daily life that the buyer is going to experience if he or she invests in the property. This trendy technology is buzzing the market these days and many agents are making such videos for their clients.

Selling of properties involves a lot of legal complexities which only expert realtors can handle. Thus, it is always prudent that you entrust this work to reliable agents who simplify the procedures to a great extent. If you want to advertise on homes for sale in Whistler, trust none other than Whistler Real Estate. Their aggressive marketing tools and strategies ensure that the clients get the best prices for their houses. They take up every responsibility freeing their clients from all the burdens.